


After Conquest

by solitariusvirtus



Series: Historicals [1]
Category: 11th Century CE RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Norman Conquest, Anglo-Saxon England, F/M, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 17:38:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12194589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: From daughter of a slain king to simple nun, Gunhild never allows herself to forget her sire, Harold Godwinson, and the blow the Normans have dealt her family. She would gladly see them perish, but since she has no power, she lives quietly in her abbey until the day trouble comes knocking. The sole inheritor of her mother's lands, she is brought to the attention of Alain le Roux, 1st Earl of Richmond, during trying times.





	After Conquest

 

 

 

 

 

 

Uncle Saewine put his arms about her, lifting her meagre weight with ease. Gunhild was still shrieking as loud as her lungs allowed her, the weeping reverberating through the hall as her mother's servants stood around her father's body, heads bent. None made a sound but for her. She knew she should act with more decorum, that the dead deserved at least that much of her. But for the life of her, she could not emulate her mother's silent grace.

The Gentle Swan lifted her gaze from the torn corpse of her man and looked to her youngest daughter. Given her mother's attention Gunhild's wailing turned into soft sniffling gradually. "Have you no shame, to defile my hall with your caterwauling, stupid wench! Your sire died a brave death in battle and you would spit upon his memory with carelessness."

She quietened, her face growing red. Gunhild looked from her mother to her sister. Gytha's features, so much like their mother's, softened for her. She nodded to her and pleaded with Saewine to put her down. "My sister knows the proper way to go about mourning our sire, my lady," she further assured the lady of the hall. "I shall see to it that she behaves as behoves a woman of her rank."

Though she was not yet a woman and might have claimed as much, Gunhild did not dare speak. Mother was wrought by the demise of the man she'd loved a lifetime long; the blow had forced her to her knees. How could it not? A woman like her mother loved only once and that love lasted beyond eternity. Gunhild glanced at her feet, feeling her sister's hand take hers. Gytha gave a soft squeeze. She squeezed back. "Come, let us give father the manner of farewell he deserves," the elder whispered.

They approached the lifeless form of their sire hand in hand, Gytha's step sure and steady as her own was a pale shadow by comparison. But her sister sent her to their father's left as she occupied the other flank. Gytha bent to touch her lips to Harold Godwinson's cheek, apparently not put out by the battle-markings there. "Fare thee well, brave king," she then pressed a second kiss to his cheek, following it with a single, choked word, "father."

Unwilling to disgrace herself further, Gunhild hesitantly leaned in. "May God, in His mercy, rest thy soul in better comfort than was found here." She put her lips to the cold, dead skin of his cheek and closed her eyes against the wave of remorse piercing through the thin shield of calm. Mother would not thank her to start weeping again, she told herself. Swallowing the pathetic sound which threatened to break free despite her best effort, Gunhild crossed herself.

Both she and her sister stepped away from their father and were swiftly pressed into the care of Ceolburh, an old servant woman who'd had their care as far back as Gunhild could remember. "Come, let us not inopportune my lady any further."

Ceolburh was a hundred if she was a day, but she was a kind, gentle soul with a gift for telling tales. She spent many an hour entertaining her and Gytha. If only her sight were better she might teach them how to properly embroider. Alas, they had to make do with Wifrun whose countenance could turn new milk sour. Alas, such troubles seemed insignificant in the face of their recent loss. Even worse, Godwin and Edmund were nowhere to be found, and that widow their father had spared helped the matter none by disappearing.

There was no one left, Gunhild considered the sad state of affairs. Uncles Gyrth and Leofwine were as dead as father and could not aid into either rebellion or escape. Her brothers were not like to return until they'd gathered armed forced and God only knew when they would manage that. The Confessor's widow, though their aunt by blood, had never had an easy relationship with father. They could not count on her to aid them anymore than they could count on poor grandmother whose power had stemmed from her son's claim to the throne.

Led to the bedchamber she shared with her sister, Gunhild stepped over the threshold, listening to Ceolburh's soothing prattle. The old servant was telling them that they ought to prepare in case their mother wished to have word with them. "Best you start on those kirtles while you're at it."

Gytha murmured her assent and turned to Gunhild. "We can start with yours, sister." It made sense. As the younger daughter she hadn't the sheer number of kirtles Gytha had collected and usually made do with her sister's cast-offs.

Gunhild took out all her garments and laid them out upon the bed. 'Twas but five kirtles, two thick wool and two silks, along with a dress mother had commissioned for her in anticipation of court life. So great had been mother's trust in father's skill that she had demanded the garments sewn with costly golden thread. Two shifts as well, one threadbare and one not and some smallclothes. "There, there; don't start with that again," Gytha warned. "Do you wish to give those Norman pigs the satisfaction of your tears yet again?"

"Nay." Gytha embraced her, the hold tight. "You are Gunhild of Wessex, daughter of King Harold. They cannot take that from you; so act like a king's daughter ought."

But King Harold was dead. Harold Godwinson had been dismembered and shoddily put together in an act of, what had the usurper called it, compassion towards the widow who'd walked a battlefield to find her man.

"I shall," she promised to her sister, hugging her back fiercely. "But I wish father were still here. Can I help that his death tears at my heart?"

Gytha bit her lower lip and stroked her back gently. "I wish he were with us as well. But Godwin and Edmund are certain to make the Bastard repent, have no fear." She wished she had her sister's trust. But Gunhild had to confess, to her utmost shame, that she would trade both brothers for even a day longer with father.

The chroniclers would no doubt write of his death upon the battlefield, they would claim the Bastard's superiority, celebrating the usurper's triumph. King Harold had fallen to arrows and swords, chopped into pieces. What the chroniclers would never put down in writing pertained to Harold Godwinson, though.

The son of Earl Godwin had heard tales of a Gentle Swan whose beauty outshone the sun. He'd ridden day and night to reach her estate and see for himself such wonder. What words he'd spoken, how he'd conquered their mother's proud heart, Gunhild would never know. But whatever honeyed charm had poured past his lips, it had struck true, bringing him a goodly heart and affair hand for his efforts. And together the second son of Earl Godwin and his wife had lived and fought for his clam to the throne. But Harold Godwinson had not been only a husband and claimant to the throne. He'd been a father as well.

Gunhild recalled the wind combing light fingers through her hair as she stood upon her throne of hay, watching father teach Godwin to swing a sword and Edmund to string a bow. He'd taught her too to let arrows loose. Gytha preferred a knife, and it was father who first instructed her. No monk would put that in a scroll and illustrate it with care.

The world would remember King Harold and forget Harold Godwinson, and be poorer for it. For herself she would not mourn the King for she had some bones to pick with him. The King had left the Gentle Swan, though with her knowledge and blessings, and had gone off, far, far away, where he could not be reached. He'd gone to fight and claim a kingdom and returned a poor replica, bringing along the bastard's men who had come to make certain trouble was not brewing. As for that, she hoped they choked on mother's good wine and that the roasted boar they were to be fed proved too tough to swallow and lodged in their throats.

No more than they deserved.

She helped Gytha with the kirtles and shifts and the rest of it while her insides churned. But her sister had the right of it. Mother would likely take a switch to her if she howled her grief. Nay, she must endure. "There," the eldest daughter smiled her satisfaction, "Ceolburh will have an easy time with fitting these into a satchel."

She wished Ceolburh well of it, but even more wished she could pack every last item herself and run off into the night. As soon as the opportunity arose, for certainly it would, she'd heard these Normans filled quickly with drink and lost their head soon enough; which was just as well as far as she cared to consider it. Except that she would need coin and a horse and armed men. War brought all manner of unsavoury fellows upon the roads.

At long last the door to their little bedchamber opened to admit in mother, followed by trusted Saewine. "My daughters," she greeted with a slightly hoarse voice as Gytha ran to her. Gunhild held back, still smarting for the earlier harsh words. But mother motioned her over. Unable to refuse, she hugged the woman as well, listening to her voice, "I fear no peace is to be had in our home until these Normans leave. Meantime, we are to entertain Malet and his men with conversation as they take supper." Gyrha paled and started protesting. "Hush, my sweet; he claims they are under strict orders not to harm us." As though they could deal any harder a blow than taking their King away. "Come as you are when Ceolburh is sent up."

Meantime, linens had been left out for them to embroider. The truth of it was Gytha hadn't the heart to put them back in their chests once they found out about father and the half-pulled threads awaited gentle hands to guide them into submission. Gytha sat down upon her stool and pulled a flowered corner to her as Gunhild took the other upon which she'd sewn vines upon her own corner and worked in tiny leaves with a single stabbing point.

Gytha sighed, the sound harsh. "I wish my mind were not so full. I cannot stitch a single line straight." Gunhild did not look up from her work, but she could see her sister's hands fiddling with the cloth. "Did you know that Malet is kin to Edith of Mercia? I know not whether he truly is under strict orders to see we come to no harm."

"They are?"

"I heard Saewine and mother talking as soon as the message came. His sire was Norman, aye, but his mother was of Mercia herself, a distant niece to the Countess Godiva. Malet's sister, Aelgifu, wedded Ă†lfgar and it was he who sired Edith of Mercia upon her."

"Forsooth he cannot be that old, sister." Gunhild thought back to the Norman who spoke their tongue with more competence than could be expected. He stood tall, not quite as tall as father had been, but he was of decent height and hair a wealth of blonde curls. Despite the receding line of said hair, his face was pleasant enough, though his dour expression cut into the charm.

"Forsooth it matters not what his age is," Gytha chided. "I mean to say if he did not give aid to his own niece, why should we, strangers, expect anything from the man? I'd sooner trust the Devil to sign me to sleep."

"Heavens forbear," she heard herself chide back. "What words are those? I would rather have the devil sing the Norman to sleep."

Unexpected laughter poured past her sister's lips. "Him and all his men. Never fear, sister, God will smite those who betray their own kin. He struck down Uncle Tostig. Why should William Malet be any different?"

Despite their talk, which some might count as sacrilegious, given the Mercian lady had given their father sons, thus there was blood between them and William Malet, Gytha and Gunild prepared themselves for supper. Not too finely dressed, so as to appear as though their favoured the invaders, nor too shabbily arrayed, so as to give the impression of defeat, they awaited Ceolburh's arrival. The old woman came with an oath upon her lips. "God's foot; make haste, girls, make haste. The lady shall be forced to come after you otherwise."

Long benches had been arranged against the walls and tables had been laid in the hall. Mother was seated at Malet's side and to her left side two empty seats beckoned. Gytha walked before her, silent and proud, not looking about the chamber. Better that she didn't for a few of the Normans spoke amongst themselves and Gunhild, in spite of not knowing what was said, felt her stomach tie itself in knots. Unlike her, Gytha was a woman.

Alas, there was no time to show indignation, nor was it the time to do so. Gunhild hurried after her sister, stepping up the dais and quickly falling into her seat as mother broke bread with their erstwhile enemy. She appeared calm. Certainly calmer than Gunhild would be in her stead. A servant poured her some ale, while lentil soup was ladled into a bowl before her. The smell was enough to make her mouth water. If only the Normans were not enjoying the feast as well, she might have found it in her heart to praise the cook. As matters stood, she simply wished a dram of poison had made it into then composition.

But William Malet was no fool. He looked to the Gentle Swan for guidance. The woman simply spooned some of the thin broth and swallowed it. When she remained hale, the rest of the hall set to eating as well. These Normans were a noisy lot, not given to much respect from what she could see. Their house was in mourning and yet they laughed and jeered as though they attended a wedding. How she would love to see the lot of them learn some proper etiquette.

Gunhild took a sip of her ale, careful not to spill any over her garments. It would not do to further embarrass herself. Meantime she would listen to what the her mother and Malet. It was not precisely eavesdropping since they held the conversation so publicly.

"The swifter you are, lady, the better, elsewise my men and I have orders to remove you forcibly from the manor, such as it is. The Confessor's widow pleaded with His Majesty for leniency and he allowed that all three of you may take yourselves to Wilton Abbey where she herself received education."

"Abbeys require a dowry even as a husband should," their mother protested. "Your King has taken everything from me. How am I to put my girls to safety?"

Malet gave a light chuckle, holding up a bag of coin. "You may thank the Confessor's widow for that as well. She paid the fees from her own pockets." And indeed, it looked as though there was a good number of coins in there by the way they sang a happy jingle. "Strive to live a simple life, lady, along with your daughters, and His Majesty promises to forget you were ever involved with his enemy. He will not harry you, nor cause to be afeared, in only you promise to be an obedient and good subject.

Of the old blood even as her parents had been, Edith Swannesha was Christian in name only, to appease the Chruch whose growing power was a thorn in her side. That itself would not be a problem, for Wulfthryth had been a nun sworn yet still carried on with King Edgar and birthed Edith of Wilton whom she raised to sainthood, Gunild knew. But if the Norman took away their lands, even in the event that either she or her sister escaped the abbey, they should have naught to offer in exchange for help. They could do nothing to aid Godwin and Edmund. In her heart, the thought caused her pain, yet Gunhild clenched her teeth against the deep ache and finished her lentil soup.

The Norman looked to her sister, she perceived. "This is you eldest daughter, aye?" he asked of their mother. Though Gytha's head bore covering, her veil firmly set, it did not surprise Gunhild that she still attracted the man's attention.

"Aye, Gytha is her name. Her sister is Gunhild." He considered her as well before returning his gaze to her eldest sister. "They will serve the Lord in whatever capacity your King dictates, for that is the fate of women, but do they look to you as though they should be left to molder between four stone walls? Surely they could be sent away. We have kin far away."

A small smile curled the man's lips. "His Majesty was clear in expressing his wishes." And so negotiations, if they could be called as such, came to an end.

Roasted fowl followed the lentil soup, along with wine. Gunhild declined the cup which was to be poured for her, asking instead for more ale. She was to live the rest of her life in dedication to a god who had turned a deaf year to her prayer and a blind eye to her suffering. How could she possibly reconcile herself to such a fate? It was a daughter's duty to listen, to submit; but when she tried to envision herself kneeling before the Crucifix, at the Son's feet, all she felt within her was bitterness.

Which would be the greater sin? To go to the Lord's keeping with disgust and disdain for such a life, or to disobey her poor mother? Would that she were able to tell. Gunild picked at her roasted fowl with delicate fingers, eyeing mother with her pensive expression, wondering, not for the first time what was to become of them all. In Beowulf's song an old woman mourned the fallen hero and the scop foretold of great ills that would befall the old king's folk. None need tell her life as had been up until that point was over; a skald might only give flowing form to her suffering.

Her fingers tore through cooked meat, ripping flesh from bone. She felt Gytha's leg push against her own in warning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally something somewhat original. Let me know if it's any good.


End file.
